As Though of Hemlock I Had Drunk
by Divine Sally Bowles
Summary: 10Rose. When Rose is poisoned following a trip to Clom, the Doctor finds himself desperate, alone, and more afraid of losing her than he ever thought he'd be.


**A/N: This was my first fic for Livejournal's _then_theres_us_ community. The prompt was a picture reading: _"its first effect is sudden, violent, uncontrollable laughter; then come dangerous hallucinations-space expands-time slows down..."_**

**This takes place between "Love & Monsters" and "Fear Her". The title is, of course, from John Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale". Enjoy, and let me know your thoughts!**

* * *

As Though of Hemlock I Had Drunk

It comes after they've fled to the TARDIS, after they collapse to the floor in exhaustion and euphoria and exasperation all at once, cursing their pursuers but still madly in love with the exhilaration of it all. It comes when he least expects it, when he would think they're finally safe, when he can let himself believe they've escaped another interplanetary danger. All in a day's work.

They'd decided—on a whim, really—to visit Clom. Their encounter with Victor the Absorbaloff had been enlightening, to say the least, and Rose had been dying to go back into the vicinity of Raxacoricofallapatorious. (Probably just so she could say it a few more times; she'd never lost her fascination with the name.)

Their visit had been going fine, until it turned out that word had somehow gotten back to Clom that one of their own had died on Earth. Who else could have killed him but the Doctor? He'd tried to explain, really had, but listening did not seem to be a trait prized in the Absorbaloffs. Hence the chase.

He pulls himself up from the floor after getting his breath back, working the controls until the TARDIS is off to their next destination, wherever that is. The pounding at the door, doubtless their pursuers, stops instantly, and he laughs, gleeful.

He pauses to look at Rose, still huddled on the floor, clutching her stomach and laughing insanely. She's so delighted that he takes the time to really observe her face, the smile that reminds him of so much golden light. Since the ordeal with the Wire, he finds himself looking at that face more often, imprinting it into his memory, needing to always remember what it looks like so that he can forget the time it wasn't there.

"You enjoyed that, did you?" he asks, reaching out his hand to help her up, and she's still laughing as she twines her fingers with his and gets up from the floor.

"More fun than I've had in ages. Did you see the looks on their faces? And we hadn't even _done_ anything! That's the best part! For once, it wasn't us!"

"_For once_ is right," he agrees, laughing, but when her own laughter hasn't stopped in another few minutes, when she's still practically doubled over and howling, he finds his amusement suddenly fading to concern.

"Rose?" he asks, walking closer, cupping her chin and tilting her face to his, scanning. There's sweat on her brow, and she's practically convulsing with how hard she's laughing. "Rose, what's—?"

He glances down and sees it—a smear of crimson on the cuff of her jacket, wet to his touch. Slightly panicked now, her laughter still ringing in his ears as a sign that something is painfully wrong, he pushes her sleeve back and sees it. The dart is embedded deep in her wrist, some blood still seeping sluggishly from the wound.

A certain terror seizes him, that clenching in both of his hearts he feels whenever she's in danger, which is far too often for his tastes, which he always tells himself shouldn't _happen_ when he's around—

He doesn't want to let go of her, knows from the heat flushing her skin that they're losing time and have to get to an infirmary _now_, but he can't bring himself to let go until precious seconds have ticked by, until his inner selves are screaming at him to _move_, now! And he lets go of the hand he's gotten so used to holding in his, rushing to the console and mindlessly punching in the location of the nearest infirmary he knows, desperately hoping it won't be long before they arrive. He rushes back to her, cursing that maddening laugh, the laugh he loves but that scares him now, and clutches her face in his hands, hoping she understands when he speaks.

"Rose? Rose, I'm taking you somewhere where they'll help you. You've—the Absorbaloffs must be able to produce poison as well—why didn't I _remember_—!"

And he stops as abruptly as he began, because her legs fold and she falls against him, and it's all he can do to hold her violently shaking body against him as the TARDIS hurtles towards the place he hopes will be their salvation.

* * *

He hands her to the nurses only under duress, when they practically have to pry him off of her. He'd removed the dart with his teeth, pressing his lips to her wrist and sucking, spitting, continuing, not knowing if it will do a damn thing but having to _try_. When the TARDIS lands he takes her into his arms, backing into the door and carrying her out, her head lolling against his shoulder. It scares him how completely lifeless she is.

He thinks he can feel the heat of her fevered skin through her clothes, tries to remember the highest point a fever can reach in a human before there's danger, but no thought besides how much he can't lose her penetrates the fog in his mind right now, and finally they wrench her from him and he is left standing with the taste of her in his mouth and the feel of her still in his arms but not in a way he'd ever wanted.

It is a long time before he receives any news on her condition. He has to sit in a blindingly white waiting room, but he finds he can't sit, that he has to pace instead, even when his muscles are protesting from the exertion—earlier's running, carrying Rose, and now this—and when he knows he shouldn't wear himself out but can't help it. After all, if he were to collapse from exhaustion, wouldn't it pale next to what's happening to Rose, next to the danger he can't forgive himself for putting her in?

Because he realizes now that he should have remembered, can kick himself with the knowledge that she might be dying because of him. Because he can feel the disapproval and anger strongly from his former self, almost shoving the memory in front of him, making him look.

"_Tell me, then, Doctor, what do you know of our species?"_

"_Only what I've seen."_

"_Did you know, for example, in extreme cases… when her life is in danger, a female Raxacoricofallapatorian can manufacture a poison dart within her own finger—"_

"_Yes, I did."_

He curses himself for not remembering, for not even thinking that denizens of Raxacoricofallapatorious' twin planet would probably have similar abilities. If he'd known, if he'd _thought_, he never would have taken Rose anywhere _near_ there, wouldn't be here now in this damnable place, waiting—

Four hours, then five, then six, and he is ready to break out the psychic paper and run off in the direction they'd taken her and demand entrance when finally a nurse he thinks he recognizes approaches. He stops pacing, though the wired energy still makes him somewhat jittery and he stands, hands faintly trembling, and waits for the nurse to speak.

"You were the one who brought in the girl—Rose, you called her, yes?"

He doesn't remember saying anything besides practically begging them to help her, but he's sure he must have said her name, had probably wanted to say it one last time, in case…

He nods, all he can bring himself to do, and the nurse continues. "We've done all we can. Some of the poison is still in her system, and we're going to wait and see if it resolves itself naturally. We're working on bringing her fever down, and she's experiencing delirium, but it would be best if you sat with her, we think. It might calm her down if she becomes lucid."

He nods, immensely grateful to this alien nurse (green, scaly skin, gills, and hands that look distinctly clawlike) for saving his Rose (because she _is_ his; he doesn't know when he started thinking of her that way, but if he is _her Doctor_ then she is his Rose) and for letting him be with her. He follows her down the hall, stopping outside of the room and bracing himself before he goes in.

The girl twisted in the bedsheets, half-whimpering, half-crying, certainly doesn't look like his Rose. Her hair is damp, matted, sticking to her face and neck, and her hand scrabbles at the railing of the bed, pained. He crosses to the chair beside her bed, sitting and grabbing the hand that reaches, clasping it tight.

"Rose, it's me. I'm here."

And he wants more than anything for her to know just who it is, for her to be conscious, to understand, but it's too much to hope for and his heart inevitably sinks as her unfocused eyes look straight at him and another whimper escapes her throat. "Daddy?"

He hasn't heard her voice so broken in a long time—not, when he thinks of it, since the day they'd gone back to see her father. She'd cried for a long time afterwards, and he realizes sometimes that deep down she's still partly that little girl who lost her father, who so desperately needs someone to protect her, to be there for her the way her father had never had the chance to.

So he smooths her hair away from her face, gently stroking one of her temples over with his thumb. "I'm here, love," he soothes, trying to remember how Pete talked to her, and finding that the words come more naturally than he thought they would. "I'm here."

* * *

It takes three days for the hallucinations to subside. Three hellish days where he's sure he doesn't sleep, although when he thinks about it, there had to be times when he drifted off. His hand never leaves hers, his legs cramp from sitting huddled in this chair, but he never moves, eats and drinks only when forced to by the nurses, eyes never wavering from her face.

The first day, he's Pete; the second, she asks for her mum; the third, she shakes and cries, scared of some imaginary threat he wishes he could protect her from. Her cries wrench at both his hearts, and he does what he can, all the while wishing he could do more.

On the fourth day, her eyes open again, and it takes him a second to realize that they are focused, seeing, looking straight at him. Her voice cracks as she whispers hoarsely, "Doctor?"

He stares for another second, dumfounded, his breathing speeding to an impossible rate before he laughs joyously, and before he can stop himself he leans in and kisses her lips, amazed that she's alive, still with him, that the hand holding his is squeezing back and that the other arm is looping around his neck.

"How long was I—what happened—?" she starts, as he pours her water from a nearby pitcher and hands it to her, to help her throat. She drinks, and her voice is stronger now as she repeats, seeing his undoubtedly haggard face, "How long?"

"Three days." He can't help himself from reaching out and smoothing her hair back just once more, his thumb tracing her cheek faintly before he pulls his hand back. "Trouble on Clom. You're fine now, though. Just fine."

She smiles, and the relief on her face grips his hearts so tightly he almost wants to cry, and he resolves to forget these three miserable days for the rest of his existence. Three days is nothing compared to all the days he has had with her—and all the days to come.


End file.
